


warmth

by fangedangel (clockworkqueen)



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: ?? - Freeform, Angst, Bruises, Bucky is Lowkey A Kinky Shit, First Time, Grinding, Love Confessions, M/M, Marking, Mental Health Issues, Oral Sex, PTSD, Romance, Sexual Sparring, Steve Is a Good Bro, vague D/s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 21:19:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7405213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clockworkqueen/pseuds/fangedangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky and T'Challa like to spar. Bucky likes to let him win. </p><p>"Sometimes I think you like getting punched," Steve says. </p><p>Maybe he does. Maybe Bucky just likes the bruises.</p>
            </blockquote>





	warmth

**Author's Note:**

  * For [howler32557038](https://archiveofourown.org/users/howler32557038/gifts).



> I know this is not the fic you've been screaming at me to write BUT you did prompt this of me a couple months ago. I hope I got it right! :D

Every morning is the same. Bucky jerks awake with a gasp, and for a few moments he’s stuck. He can’t move anything below his neck, and Bucky wants to scream. It’s cold. He’s cold - he’s frozen.

Realistically, Bucky knows that he isn't actually unable to move. It’s all psychological. But just the same, Bucky wakes from a restless sleep into an ice cold reality. Once he can finally move, he hurries to the shower, turning the dial to scalding before jumping in, sometimes still wearing his pajama bottoms.

He’s messed up in the head, Bucky knows. He should've said something, maybe, to the nice Wakandan doctors. Bucky saw a psychologist as well, but that was more for “forgiveness”- something for which was going to be a long time coming. If ever.

But once his conditioned response to the Winter Soldier triggers went through successful extinction, Bucky couldn't stand anymore tests. No more needles or MRI’s.

So he kept quiet. He could handle it. Bucky’s teeth may clatter in the shower even though the water was hot enough to burn. But he'd been through worse.

He’d hurt so many - killed so many. This was far less than he deserved.

After his shower, Bucky usually made his way out into the gardens. The royal grounds were gorgeous; lush, green and well manicured. Sometimes Bucky choose to walk, and he'd walk and walk.

But other times, like today, Bucky simply stretched out on the grass, still damp with dew, and let the sun warm his body.

The heat was one of Bucky’s favorite things about Wakanda. It did cool down in the evenings, but in the day, Bucky could step outside at any time and feel himself warm up

His heart rate decreased, breathing was easier. Bucky relaxed. Because there had been no sun in Siberia. Not for Bucky.

There had been no T’Challa, either.

Months ago, the king, still freshly titled - had accepted Bucky into his country. He’d offered him medical care, protection. Solstice.

And surprisingly enough, friendship.

“James?” a voice calls from above him, softly as not to startle him.

Bucky blinks open his eyes, finding T’Challa standing above him. Like always, his presence makes Bucky crack his first smile of the day. He couldn't stop it if he tried. He wouldn't want to.

“Morning,” Bucky replies, pushing himself up onto his feet, pretending to wince.

T’Challa laughs. Bucky considers being able to witness T’Challa’s laugh an honor. A deep part of him wants to be able to make the king laugh all the time.

“Still hurting from yesterday?” T’Challa teases.

“Don’t you know I bruise like a peach?”

T’Challa reaches out a hand to help him up with a snort. “You look fine to me. Excuses, excuses.”

This is just a game, though. The sun warmed Bucky a little bit. But nothing warmed him like T’Challa and his smile.

Bucky takes his offered hand and follows the king back into the palace, trying not to shiver as he's enveloped in cool A/C.

The king doesn’t seem to notice, thank god. Bucky would never want him to think that he didn't appreciate him. That what he was doing didn't mean everything to him. Because he did.

“Are we boxing or should we just go at it?” T’Challa asks as the make their way to the training center.

When Bucky had first arrived at the palace, the training space was usually full, with T’Challa’s guard or other visitors. But slowly, the morning traffic dissipated until it was usually just the two of them.

Everyone’s apparent dislike for him should worry Bucky, but truthfully, he was happy to spend time with T’Challa without prying eyes.

“We can ‘go at it’,” Bucky laughs. “Where are you picking up this slang from?”

T’Challa simply smiles. “Arm or no arm?”

The metal plates in Bucky’s arm shift instinctively, like the arm knows that it’s being talked about. For all he knows, it might. Bucky wouldn't put it past T’Challa.

When he'd woken up, the arm had been already ready made for him. It had frightened Bucky at first, getting a new weapon attached to him. Because he wasn't much more than that, not really. A weapon. He hadn’t wanted it, at first. But Bucky knew that he had to be prepared to use it if all hell broke loose and they came after him.

T’Challa and Wakanda had taken him in. And Bucky was prepared to fight for the country that had given him refuge.

That’s why he got the arm. To fight. But T’Challa’s arm didn't make Bucky feel like a weapon.

The technology was like nothing Bucky had seen before. Nothing he'd ever dreamt about. It seemed more like something out of one of those science fiction books Steve told him he'd once liked to read.

It was metal, just like the one that had been taken from him. There were plates that shifted and moved, too. But the red star was gone, and Bucky was thankful. T’Challa had wondered if Bucky wanted a new insignia there.

He’d thought about asking for T’Challa’s mark - the king didn't seem the type to judge. But not too long after, Bucky had realized abruptly that he already had T’Challa’s imprint. In the purest form. T’Challa had created his arm in its entirety, for him.

This sent a weird thrill down his spine, being possessed. It shouldn’t, after so many decades of being owned, of being little more than a slave to do their bidding. But this was different.

“No arm,” Bucky decides, shaking his head.

T’Challa only smiles, respecting his choice. This too is different. Choice. He hadn't had a choice in anything before. Now, T’Challa showered him with them.

Sometimes, it was too much. Somedays he didn't know how to answer simple questions. He didn't know what he wanted for breakfast or lunch. He didn't know if he wanted to wear the arm or not. _He didn't know_.

On those days, he simply stayed in his chambers. It was easier that way. To dim all the lights and curl up under three blankets to shut out the sound. Once he was ready to come out, T’Challa usually wasn't hard to find, wearing a patient smile and holding boxing gloves.

As you would expect, one armed fighting never really went to well for Bucky. T’Challa never put his suit on in Bucky’s presence, sticking to thin pants and a tank top of varying colors. He looked best in blue or green, in Bucky’s opinion. The lack of armor meant that with the arm, Bucky would probably win.

He didn't want that.

“Distracted?” T’Challa questions before sweeping Bucky’s feet from under him.

“Sorry,” he apologizes, not losing his footing completely.

T’Challa fixes him with a gaze that makes Bucky’s blood run hot and his stomach do that weird swoopy thing. It’s a sensation that he recognizes, faintly, but he is unable to put his finger on the emotion.

“You have nothing to apologize for.”

It’s no wonder that Bucky quickly ends up on his back.

He gasps as he hits the mat, his breath leaving his chest. T’Challa’s body is right above his, and Bucky is breathless for more than one reason.

T’Challa’s smiling.

It’s not that he never does. T’Challa has many smiles. Polite, kind, patient. But none of them are like this. T’Challa’s face is open, bright. He looks happy. Bucky smiles back.

“Looks like you won,” Bucky manages hoarsely, after he gets his voice back.

T’Challa laughs, and some of the chill from the air conditioner disappears. “Looks like it.” Finally, he stands up, offering a hand. Bucky takes it, instantly missing T’Challa’s warmth.

The king hands him a towel and tosses him a water from a mini-fridge set up in the room. Even with only one arm, Bucky’s reflexes still allow him to catch the bottle. He sips from it gratefully as he watches the other man wipe sweat from his brow.

When he’s done, T’Challa picks up Bucky’s arm from the table where they left it. He steps forward without being prompted, turning his left side toward T’Challa. He doesn’t panic anymore when people touch his arm. But Bucky prefers it to be T’Challa.

Bucky is more than capable of putting the arm on by himself. But T’Challa had offered his assistance once, and it became routine. Friendly touch was still surreal to him. For so long, kind touch was only the stuff of dreams. Now, T’Challa hummed quietly as he adjusted a thing or two on the arm with his right hand, the left curled around Bucky’s back.

He leans into it shamelessly until T’Challa murmurs that he is finished, prompting Bucky to squeeze the hand into a fist.

“Good?” T’Challa asks, still smiling.

“Good,” Bucky confirms.

He is good. Bucky carries T’Challa’s happiness around with him for the rest of the day.

Bucky spies T’Challa in the hall later, and oh. The king is simply talking with Shuri and a few others. But he notices Bucky and smiles slowly, like it’s just between them. All of a sudden, he recognizes that swooping feeling.

When he brings himself off in the shower before bed, it’s the memory of T’Challa’s smile that sends him over the edge.

*  
“Jesus.”

Bucky spins around in surprise when Steve enters his quarters, face going hot. He rushes to find a shirt to cover his scarred body. Steve has claimed not to mind it on more than one occasion, but it must be disconcerting to see so early in the morning.

“Buck, stop. I’m not talking about the scars. I’m talking about the fresh bruises. What have you and T’Challa been doing?” Steve raises an eyebrow, and while Bucky knows Steve doesn’t _mean_ to be suggestive, Bucky still hides his face in his hands. He misses the days when Steve was the only blushing one.

“We spar. Every morning,” Bucky tries to explain.

“Do you ever win?” Steve smirks. “Sometimes I think you like getting punched.”

Bucky remembers saying those words to a smaller Steve, in a different world. The memory hits him quickly, and Bucky leans further back in the barstool at the table he sits at. He can vividly remember his mother chastising him for leaning back in his chair, and Bucky sits flat in his seat. He doesn't really need anymore brain damage.

“Sorry,” Steve apologizes when Bucky starts to look less dreamy. “I didn't know it would - “

“Don’t be,” Bucky cuts him off. “I like it when you tease me. It makes me feel more like _me_.”

Steve bumps his shoulder. “In that case…but seriously. The bruises?”

Bucky shrugs. “To tell you the truth, I didn't even notice them.” It is a half truth. Bucky never notices the pain. But the scars themselves? They are different from the other ones on his body. Bucky stands in front of his bathroom mirror and presses his fingers into these.

“I always take my arm off,” Bucky continues. “So he usually wins.”

Steve’s brow crinkles in confusion. “I thought you liked your arm?”

“I do,” Bucky corrects, affronted. “I love it, its amazing.”

“Then why do you take it off?” Steve asks, in the blunt way of his that reminds Bucky of a tiny apartment and strong black coffee because of sugar rations.

He searches his brain, but Bucky cannot find an answer to Steve’s question. “I don’t know.”

“You do,” Steve presses, and god has Bucky missed him. The Steve that didn't walk on glass around him. The Steve that didn't act like he was a foot away from a mental breakdown. “Why?”  
“Because,” Bucky whispers. “I want him to win.”

“Why do you want T’Challa to win?” Steve asks.

Bucky goes quiet, standing up to pour a glass of water for himself and Steve. He feels woozy, unbalanced. “I think I love him,” Bucky says eventually.

“What makes you think that?” Steve takes it in stride, and Bucky doesn’t know what else he expected him to do. He’d heard the story. Steve had been burning a candle for Sam Wilson since their first meeting. Now, they were together and happy, and Bucky had a new friend.

“I don’t know,” Bucky answers honestly. He doesn’t feel like explaining the complicated reasoning of his messed up brain. The ice melts faster around T’Challa.

Steve sips calmly from his glass. “What does you loving him have to do with you getting your ass handed to you every morning?”

Bucky snorts. “It’s stupid.”

“Not to me.”

He hesitates, but answers anyway. Bucky doesn’t like keeping things from Steve. “When he wins, T’Challa smiles. It’s - “ he takes a moment to laugh at how ridiculous he sounds. “It’s like when the sun comes out or something.”

Steve grins and stands up to give Bucky a hug. He leans into Steve’s warmth, overcome by a fresh wave of love for his best friend. “I sound like a lovesick puppy, don’t I?”

“No different than how I am about Sam, probably.” Steve comments.

He groans. “Don’t remind me. I never want to hear about Sam’s ass in your favorite jeans. Never again.”

He laughs, and Bucky punches him. Steve steps back. “Hey, save that for T’Challa. Are you gonna take my advice?”

Bucky nods resignedly.

“Tomorrow, when you meet for your sparring date, I want you to wear the arm. I want you to win,” Steve says.

He goes to protest, but Steve cuts him off. “You think that you only get to see him laugh, to see the real T’Challa because he’s winning a fight. But what if the whole reason T’Challa’s smiling is because of you?”

Bucky opens his mouth and then closes it. As improbable and ridiculous of a notion it is, he’d never thought about it like that for a second. He never would've hoped.

Steve pats his shoulder. “I’ll leave you with that, pal. Good luck tomorrow.”

He smiles up at Steve, and its genuine. “Thanks, man. Say hello to Sam for me.”

“Will do.” Steve heads for the door, but turns toward Bucky again. “I hope he’s wearing those jeans.”

Bucky groans.

*  
That night, he dreams about T’Challa’s breath on his neck. About kissing his lips and getting his legs tangled in his.

When he wakes, Bucky is a little warmer.  
*

“Arm or no arm?” T’Challa asks, same as usual.

Bucky doesn’t bother hesitating. “Arm.”

If T’Challa is surprised his face doesn’t show it. Bucky finds himself missing his touch.

They square up on the mat to fight, and Bucky forces himself to remain grounded and present. He lets T’Challa throw the first punch so he doesn’t suspect anything. But from there on out, Bucky treats this like a real fight.

Without the hurt though. Bucky wouldn't dream of marking up T’Challa’s skin, and he doubts that the king would find the same perverse pleasure in the bruises that Bucky does. No, he simply evades, punches and kicks.

Letting T’Challa win all the time meant that Bucky had the opportunity to observe T’Challa. He knew the kings fight pattern, more or less, could anticipate around half of his moves.

The fight was over before Bucky had really even broken a sweat.

T’Challa was flat on his back, Bucky’s body curved over his. There was a hint of surprise in T’Challa’s eyes, but no anger.

“Looks like you won,” T’Challa says easily, throwing Bucky’s line back at him. People had been doing that a lot lately.

“Looks like it,” Bucky says, trying not to feel disappointed at his lack of reaction. It was a stupid plan from the start. He'd been stupid to hope.

But then, T’Challa laughs.

He tips his head back even further, and Bucky can _feel_ him laughing, can feel the minute movements of T’Challa’s body. He looks happy. Like a man who just won a fight, not a man who just lost one. He looks like a man who’s enjoying someone else’s company.

Bucky looks at T’Challa, laughing and smiling under him, and he cant do this anymore. He’d resigned himself to loving this man quietly. But he can’t anymore.

“T’Challa,” Bucky whispers.

The king meets Bucky’s eyes. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Bucky leans down, and before he loses his nerve, kisses him.

T’Challa does’t protest, so Bucky snakes his flesh arm beneath his neck, pulling T’Challa closer. They’re touching chest to chest now, and T’Challa is kissing him back feverishly, the pressure making Bucky’s knees weak. He is thankful to be on the ground.

T’Challa’s hand curls in Bucky’s shirt, the other softly caressing the metal of his arm. Every soft touch feels like fire, and T’Challa is making Bucky burn. He moans softly, rocking his hips into the king beneath him.

He breaks the kiss to let T’Challa breathe, attacking his neck instead. Bucky knows they should stop and talk about this. He used to be a charmer back in the day, Bucky can remember as much. But now, words aren't his strong suit and Bucky’s certain that if they stop now, he’ll muck it up.

So Bucky grinds down against T’Challa’s hips again, harder this time. He hasn't forgotten this. Sex is a part of human nature. But he’ll have to try his hardest to remember how to be any good at it.

T’Challa seems to like it though. He’s making these sweet sounds, arching his back into each of Bucky’s thrusts. Bucky adds it to the mental list of T’Challa’s cat-like qualities.

He’ll be keeping this one from Sam.

“You’re beautiful,” Bucky breathes against T’Challa’s lips.

The king smiles into the kiss. “Do you think we should move this somewhere else? You’re not fucking me on this floor.”

T’Challa’s words send a rush of heat and confusion through Bucky. Of course, T’Challa picks up on it, and brushes a stray strand of Bucky’s hair out of his face, tucking it behind his ear. The simple action calms Bucky, and he takes a deep breath.

“Bucky, we don’t have to do anything. This floor just isn't doing great things for my back,” T’Challa comments.

It’s only then that Bucky realizes he'd been pressing T’Challa into the floor, and he jumps up quickly, apologetic.

“Can I kiss you?” T’Challa asks, ignoring Bucky’s apologies.

Finally, T’Challa gives Bucky a choice that he doesn’t have to think twice about. “Yes.”

*

They make it to T’Challa’s rooms without interruption. If Bucky had thought that the Dora Milaje had some sort of powers before, now he was certain.

Suspicions aside, the empty halls gave them free reign to kiss and touch as they made their way through the palace.

Public displays of affection weren't really a thing for unmarried couples before the war. What he’s doing now would have him killed for more than one reason, and Bucky smiles wickedly into the kiss. He’s lucky.

Unlucky as hell for a myriad of other reasons, but Bucky is tired of thinking about that. He’s lucky to be able to kiss the man he loves without fear.

They finally make it to T’Challa’s door and he dismisses the dark-haired woman standing there with a smile. She winks knowingly at Bucky, giving him a thumbs up. Maybe the people here don't hate him after all.

Bucky doesn’t even get a chance to marvel at the luxury of T’Challa’s place. He does however get a good look at T’Challa’s room after he pushes Bucky onto the bed playfully.

He grins up at T’Challa, beckoning him closer on the bed that’s large enough to fit five people. This time, Bucky is beneath T’Challa as the king leans down to kiss him. Bucky finds that he doesn’t mind.

“What do you want?” T’Challa breaks the kiss to ask, once Bucky’s brain has been thoroughly reduced to mush.

“I want,” Bucky hesitates. “I want to make you feel good.”

“Why?” T’Challa asks, not letting either of his hands stray from Bucky’s body, grounding him.

“That’s what you do for me. All the time. I just want to see you smile.”

He does. Bucky thinks it’s the most brilliant one yet.

“I want to see you,” T’Challa says, and Bucky hurries to his feet to get rid of his clothes. He moves quickly at first, but slows his motions in order to better watch T’Challa take off his own.

Miles and miles of unmarked skin. All at once, Bucky is intensely jealous and filled with a burning need to taste every inch of him. T’Challa’s body is so much different than Bucky’s. His frame is smaller, lithe muscles and long limbs.

He rejoins T’Challa on the bed, finding his lips instantly, their hands roaming their now bare bodies. Then T’Challa notices the bruises.

“Bucky,” T’Challa breathes. “Why didn't you tell me I was hurting you like this?”

“I like it,” Bucky gasps before T’Challa can beat himself up. Even the soft touch over the marks cause Bucky to shiver.

“The marks or the pain?” T’Challa asks curiously, pressing his fingers into a bruise.

He moans. “The marks.” Privately, Bucky thinks it might be both. Maybe he just likes T’Challa’s hands on him.

“It’s different, right?” T’Challa deduces. “From your other scars.”

He nods, suddenly feeling embarrassed. Bucky wants to hide, or at least put his shirt back on.

“They don’t last long,” Bucky mumbles.

“I like your scars,” T’Challa says. “I don’t like what they represent. I hate what they did to you. But they’re also testament to how strong you are. Bucky, you’re beautiful.”  
“I love you,” Bucky blurts. Instantly, he knows it’s the wrong thing to say. “Shit, ‘Challa - “

“I love you too. Idiot.” T’Challa says this fondly, and Bucky resists the urge to deck him.

“Really?”

“Truly.”

Bucky laughs, and wraps arms around T’Challa’s back to kiss him harder.

“Now that we’ve gotten that squared away. I want to taste you, Buck.” T’Challa says in his ear.

Bucky smirks. “Turn around.”

T’Challa looks slightly confused, but turns around anyway. “Go ahead,” Bucky eggs him on, moaning loudly when T’Challa presses his lips to his cock.

Right when T’Challa starts establishing a rhythm, Bucky takes T’Challa’s legs and spreads them wider. He closes his lips around the head of T’Challa’s cock and sucks it into his mouth, running his metal fingers up and down T’Challa’s leg.

T’Challa’s shocked groan reverberates through Bucky’s entire being. He focuses very hard on not coming, and swallows T’Challa all the way down.

Bitten off moans and heavy breathing were the only two sounds in the bedroom.

Bucky hadn't had sex since a dirty tavern in France somewhere. The hot heat of T’Challa’s mouth was more than enough to get Bucky off, but he was on the edge now that T’Challa was unconsciously fucking his throat.

He gently presses a finger to T’Challa’s entrance, not to penetrate but to massage, and T’Challa loses it.

T’Challa comes down Bucky’s throat with a groan, sending Bucky over the edge as well.

Bucky shuts his eyes, utterly spent. He blindly pulls T’Challa’s body toward him, and the king laughs before allowing himself to be pulled.

“Hey,” T’Challa says, snuggling into Bucky’s side, getting comfortable. The action makes a goofy smile appear on Bucky’s face and he hopes that the darkness of the room means T’Challa doesn’t see it.”

“I love you,” Bucky says simply. T’Challa grins.  
*

Bucky wakes slowly, and instantly notices something is different.

He’s not in his bed for one. He’s not alone. Bucky is in bed with the King of Wakanda. A man who just told him that he loved him, too.

He’s warm. Bucky gasps when he realizes it. He’s not shivering. His body isn't screaming for a scalding shower. In fact, he’s still gloriously naked, same as T’Challa. Bucky’s skin is warm. He feels warm all over.

This is what he'd been trying to explain to Steve. T’Challa made him feel, made him warm. T’Challa melted the ice.

He wants to tell T’Challa, wants to tell him how he makes him feel and press kiss after kiss to T’Challa’s skin. But the beautiful man is still sleeping peacefully, and Bucky doesn’t have the heart to wake him up.

Bucky yawns before getting up and softly padding into T’Challa’s bathroom. He spies himself in the mirror and takes in his messy hair and sleepy eyes. There’s a fading bruise, where his neck meets his shoulder.

He smiles, pressing his finger to it. 


End file.
